Simon was silent. He was trying to imagine Chicago as a village, and he found it incredibly hard. He looked to the north, toward the Lake Street shopping district; in the distance were several grain elevators, framed by the North Side neighborhoods. The Water Tower was all but dwarfed by the vast lake behind it.
“If you know your history,” Bross continued, “you know that in the old Roman Empire, the highest of honors was conferred upon not only the conqueror of nations, but upon him who built the most roads and the best bridges. He was called Pontifex Maximus— the greatest bridge-builder— a title the Pope is proud to retain to the present day, the most enduring title ever worn by a monarch. In our age, we must honor the men who have made Chicago commercially what imperial Rome was politically then. What a high position history will give the names of those who have enabled this nation to push the railroads across the great rivers, over the mountains, and entirely across the continent, so that all channels of trade now point to and converge in a focus at Chicago! Nothing else can equal it— so have not these men already become in reality, in their own time, and not in mere name a Pontifex Maximus?”
Simon didn’t know how to respond. “I-I suppose,” he said. “I had never thought of it so.”
“Of course not,” Bross said, “but such honor and recognition is crucial. You see, public opinion keeps the fires of industry alight, for men will go where they expect the most and best rewards for their labor. What city in the world can compete with Chicago? Many others would wish it: Saint Louis, Milwaukee, Omaha, Kansas City, Denver, and a hundred other growing cities may exclaim, ‘Do you leave nothing for us?’ And they would take it if we gave them the chance.”
“I see,” Simon replied.
“Do you?” Bross asked. “In order to realize such a magnificent destiny, the city’s confidence must be guarded and promoted. So in that light, do you find that the fire marshal’s words were appropriate?”
Simon shrugged. “I cannot truly say,” he replied. “I am sure that he means well—”
“That may be debated,” Bross shot back. “If Williams had his way, then half the city would be fleeing in a panic. Such delusions benefit no one— on the contrary, they risk costing us dearly. I expect to see none of those words in your article, understand?”
Simon paused. “Are you asking that I bowdlerize my coverage?”
“Not at all,” Bross replied. “I am asking you to report the facts, nothing more and nothing less. Publish whatever statistics you like, but do not stoop to elevating his incendiary words.”
Simon nodded. He knew that Bross and Medill controlled his fate, so for the time being, he had to cozy up to them— otherwise he risked losing everything he had. “I understand,” he said.
When Simon turned in his copy, he was encouraged to find that both Bross and Medill seemed to like it. For practical purposes, that was the only thing that mattered, but the story garnered no public attention at all. Board meetings were just not as exciting as fires and explosions. The article was printed between the court dockets and the obituaries, where very few people were likely to read it.
Even Simon didn’t look at the article afterward, so he never saw the ad that ran on the same page. On the right-hand side, two columns from his story, was a bold-faced ad that boasted of the “Fire Proof Tribune Building.” No one saw any irony in that— at least not for a while.
SIMON HADN’T FORGOTTEN ABOUT LILLIAN ANDRIST, but he didn’t expect to cross paths with her anytime soon. Then, to his surprise, she came into the newsroom and specifically asked to speak with him. The other reporters didn’t know what to make of her, but they directed her to Simon’s desk. He was caught completely off guard.
She wasted no time in getting to the point. “Are you the same Simon Caldwell who recently bought a tract through J. Young Scammon?”
Simon blinked and looked around. “I-I’m sorry,” were the first words out of his mouth. “I mustn’t discuss personal matters at work.”
“Oh, it’s not personal,” she said. “I would like to bring you a story.”
“How do you mean?” he asked. “What type of a story?”
“I cannot tell you that,” she said.
“Well, it’s not much of a tale if you won’t tell me what it is,” he replied. “In that case, I’m afraid I can’t help you—”
“Do not reject me so quickly, without knowing why I’ve come.” She leaned in closer to him. “Listen, before you assume I’m a crackpot, let me tell you that I unde’stand what I am doing. It’s only natural that I will tell you what the story entails— I simply cannot do it now, with unknown people about.”
“So say all the crackpots,” he replied. “However, if you’d like to speak with our gossip reporters—”
“Don’t assume that because I’m a woman, I consider idle gossip to be news,” she replied. “I’ll have you know that I am a loyal member of the American Temperance Society and the National Women’s Suffrage Association, and we a’e not at all as simple as the Tribune implies.”
Simon rolled his eyes. “Miss,” he said, “which part of the paper, pray tell me, implied anything of the sort?”
“Let me demonstrate what one of you’ recent a’ticles said,” she replied; then she picked up a paper and read the piece out loud:
SEX IN POLITICS.
We think the women suffrage party, or parties, will feel bound to notice the very practical and material point raised by the Nation, that men and women are incompatible, owing to the strength of the sexual influence, of co-operating wisely in any government or business enterprise whatever. We suppose there are no men living who can treat women as they would men, and no women who can treat men as they would each other. The law of sexual attraction may be kept under every restraint called for by the strictest morality or most refined purity; but it always acts.
Simon licked his lips. “Now wait a moment,” he said. “I didn’t write this piece, so I’m not sure what you hope to prove—”
“I should hope you didn’t,” she shot back. “Nonetheless, I shouldn’t have to fight to be taken seriously. Let me read you this.”
Its stronger manifestations we call sexual passion; its lighter we may style “women’s charms.” Under this general term, we may include the influence which enables male clerks to sell more goods to women than female clerks can; and vice versa, or that which compensates the weary laborer for giving up his seat in a railway car to a stout lass of 17, who, perhaps, has more need to stand than sit. The corresponding instinct in the other sex often causes the female part of a congregation to listen to a sermon with great interest which the male portion would never go to hear at all were not their services necessary, or assumed to be so, as escort.
“Need I go on?” she asked.
He sighed. “Please don’t,” he replied.
“Now what have you to say about that?”
“I needn’t say anything,” Simon replied. “As I said, I didn’t write it. Now before you start another speech, let me ask you exactly what you want.”
“For one thing, I want you to explain how and why women’s cha’ms could be so problematic.”
“Believe me,” he replied, “excessive charms are hardly a problem of yours.”
Simon half-expected Miss Andrist to lash out at him, but to his surprise, she paused and chuckled in spite of herself.
“You men,” she said. “Very well then, if you doubt the female competence, you must let me prove it to you.”
“How?”
“What if I told you a tale of graft, bribery, and real estate fraud, with the city council deeply involved, and the evidence just waiting to be uncovered by an ente’prising sleuth?”
Simon blinked. “Well,” he said, “I’d tell you I would want it to get me a raise.”
“It would get you mo’e than that,” she replied. “It would be a great investigative piece— it would bring you glory and powe’—”
“I’m listening,” he replied.
“Naturall
y,” she shot back. “Men of you’ pe’suasion always do.”
“Now wait a moment. If you’ve just been pulling my leg—”
“Sh,” she said as she put her fingers on his lips. “I’m not pulling you’ leg, Miste’ Caldwell, and I shall prove it to you. When you find the so’did truth, I guarantee that you won’t be disappointed.”
Simon took a deep breath. “Women’s charms, indeed,” he said. “Now Miss Andrist—”
“Quiet,” she said. “You must meet me at dawn Sunday mo’ning. I shall be in Lincoln Park, at the edge of the old City Cemetery. Can you promise me that?”
Simon frowned. “I still wish to know what this is all about,” he replied.
“You will,” she said, then threw a glance over her shoulder. “I shall see you on Sunday.” Then she turned and walked off without another word.
“I SHALL NEVER UNDERSTAND WOMEN,” Simon told Robert Lincoln. “Such mysterious creatures they are.”
Robert was playing with his daughter Mamie. “That, my friend, is why you lack a lady of your own.” He looked to the backyard, where his wife was pulling sheets off the clothesline. “In any event, you shan’t say I didn’t warn you Miss Andrist was feisty.”
“That is most definitely true,” Simon replied.
“You do like her though, don’t you?”
“I’m sorry?” Simon asked.
“You may admit it,” he replied. “or you may prefer not to. But I know that many men find that fire attractive.”
Simon scoffed. “Yes, in the same way that moths are attracted to flame.”
“Daddy,” Mamie said as she held out her hand. She had pulled herself into a standing position, about four feet away from her father.
“Angel, you can do it,” Robert said. “Come here, come to Daddy.”
Mamie looked around for a moment, then sat down and crawled across the floor. Robert kissed her and took her into his lap.
“Darling,” Mary Harlan said as she carried the laundry inside, “precisely when does your mother’s train arrive?”
“I’m sorry?” Robert asked.
“It comes in around seven o’clock, does it not?”
Robert looked at his pocketwatch. “Oh dear,” he said. “Yes, of course.”
“For heaven’s sakes, don’t you keep track of the time? Why do you suppose I’ve been rushing to clean up?”
“I’m sorry sweetpea,” Robert replied. “Do you plan to come to the station with me?”
“No,” she said, “the beds still remain to be made.”
Simon cleared his throat. “I really ought to be going,” he said.
“You don’t need to,” Robert replied. “Come and stay for supper.”
“No, that’s quite all right.” Simon didn’t want to intrude on any family reunion, because he knew that the Lincolns hadn’t been together in a very long time. He excused himself politely, put on his hat, and rode home on his horse.
As Simon made his way north, he found himself enveloped in thought. He was reconsidering what he had told Mary Harlan before. As independent as he was, he was starting to envy their family’s way of life. Robert had so much that Simon did not; he seemed so well-off and so stable. Simon knew he shouldn’t feel jealous, but he couldn’t help himself. He saw a wife and child as a hallmark of success, and the more Simon considered it, the more he wanted one of his own.
By the time he came to Belden Avenue, the sky had gone dark and the stars had come out. The constellation Cassiopeia hung behind his house, while the North Star twinkled silently above. Simon stared at the sky and breathed in the humid evening air. He dreamt of the day when his house might be overflowing with people. Then a wistful feeling came over him, and he forced himself to think of something else. Finally he swallowed, put his horse in its stable, and headed inside.
MEANWHILE, ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE CITY, Robert’s mother had arrived. Mary Todd Lincoln was not known for traveling light. She came with so much baggage that she needed two carriages and four redcaps to unload it from the train. Her entourage caught the attention of everyone in the station. Her round childlike face was instantly recognizable, and passersby gaped as the former First Lady walked past. Mary had aged a bit since her last time in Chicago: her soft brown eyes had developed crow’s feet, and a few gray hairs had appeared in her coiffure. But she was still the same old Mary, and she was as lively as ever. She was dressed entirely in black— she hadn’t worn colors in years— but that didn’t stop her from sporting the latest fashions from Paris. She strode across the platform in large, confident steps, while a handful of reporters scrambled to keep up.
“Robert!” she yelled. “My dear boy, have I missed you so much!” She threw her arms around him and smothered him with kisses. “You are an exceedingly naughty fellow to neglect me so long— but with rain beating against my windows and my heart filled with prescience, I feel I must inflict myself upon you now.”
Robert couldn’t help chuckling. “Hello Mother,” he said.
“Now what has happened here?” she asked as she fussed with his hair. “This cut is unbecoming— what do you think of it, Tad?”
Robert’s brother emerged from the crowd. “Tad!” Robert said as the two patted each other on the back. “It’s so good to see you again.”
“And you too,” Tad replied.
Robert turned to the reporters. “All right, fellows, you’ve seen all there is,” he said. “Move along.”
“Robert, you must rush us to your home,” Mary said. “Your blessed precious baby, how anxiously I wish to look upon her face. And your darling wife, why, she is just as dear to me as if she were my own child. I so adore her— she is doing well, I hope?”
“She’s doing wonderfully,” Robert said. “She is quite eager to see you.”
“Well then, let us hurry!” Mary said. “We haven’t a moment to lose.”
Robert looked at Tad, and the two brothers exchanged knowing glances. Their mother had always been a handful, but they had always managed to handle her. In the past ten years, Mary Lincoln had endured scandal after scandal, so the public had often seen her in an unflattering light. But as Robert and Tad well knew, Mary was smarter and more independent than most people realized.
Mary came from a wealthy Kentucky family, so she had grown up with every advantage that money could buy. At a time when women were not supposed to be educated, the young Mary Todd had engrossed herself in study. She became well versed in Shakespeare, and she spoke French with a perfect Parisian accent. She was also exposed to politics from a very young age: her father served many years in the Kentucky House of Representatives, and she was related to several governors and congressmen both by blood and by marriage. No one expected Mary to enter politics herself, since that was an arena solely for men. But she had a passion for it nevertheless.
“I became quite a politician,” Mary wrote to a friend, “rather an unladylike profession; yet at such a crisis, whose heart could remain untouched while the energies of all were called in question?”
Mary reasoned that if she couldn’t partake in politics herself, then she would have to find someone who could. She pledged early on that she would marry a President, although no one took her seriously at the time. She courted Stephen Douglas, but the relationship fizzled. Then, at the age of twenty-one, Mary found her man. The oft-repeated story was that Abraham Lincoln approached her at a ball, and his first words to her were “Miss Todd, I want to dance with you in the worst way.”
“And he did,” Mary quipped after suffering through a waltz. Her family was opposed to their romance, since the young Lincoln was far below Mary’s standards. Aside from his humble background, he was awkward, introverted, and sullen, whereas Mary was impulsive, high-spirited, and sassy enough to “make a Bishop forget his prayers.” But he had what Mary needed, namely a kind heart and a witty sense of humor. He was finishing an eight-year stint in the Illinois General Assembly, and he was considering running for Congress. Mary was anxious to become a part of his
life, and he was anxious to become a part of hers. The Lincolns were married on November 4, 1842.
Mary became pregnant within days of the wedding, and Robert was born nine months later. Mary approached motherhood with all her usual zeal. She showered her boys with affection, and she relentlessly fussed over them. She bragged about their accomplishments and threw elaborate birthday parties to which all the neighbors were invited. Naysayers accused her of spoiling her kids, but Mary naturally didn’t listen.
She also took it upon herself to polish her husband’s image. In those days, Abraham Lincoln still looked, dressed, and acted like the country boy that he was. That was fine in Central Illinois, but Mary knew that it would not be acceptable elsewhere. She cleaned out his wardrobe and taught him etiquette, and she tried to turn him into a gentleman. Lincoln never did understand fashion— try what she might, Mary could never get him to care— but as long as she took care of his wardrobe, she reasoned, she could keep any fashion disasters at bay.
When her husband was elected to Congress, Mary was right by his side. Lincoln served one term and did not run for re-election, but Mary pressed him to keep following his dream. She was both his strongest supporter and his toughest critic, and she supported him throughout his Senate campaigns. Then, when the Lincolns reached the White House, Mary felt that she and her husband had accomplished their ultimate goal.
But Mary’s time as First Lady was not what she had expected. With the nation coming apart at the seams, Mary found herself caught in the middle. Northerners attacked her background, since the Todds had owned slaves, and seven of Mary’s close relatives had joined the Confederate Army. Southerners attacked her marriage and her abolitionist beliefs. Both sides called her a traitor and a hypocrite. Mary tried to rise above the conflict by casting herself as a society matron, but that didn’t help; she found that Easterners saw her as a rube while Westerners saw her as a snob. Her low-cut dresses raised many eyebrows, and she caused an outcry by suggesting nominees to the Cabinet and Supreme Court.
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